Finals. Then break.
Finals. Then break.
Finals. Then break.

It’s all you hear while walking through the hallways of the girl’s dorm.

There’s the occasional strum of a guitar from the room next to mine, and my roommate is hunched over her books, studying in a language that is not her own.

People are running down the halls, laughing about a three week break from school or screaming in a burst of rage, “I hate finals!”

And amidst all of the chaos, all of the sounds melding into one, melodramatic hum, I remain motionless. The last words printed on the book in front of me stand out above the pressing noise.

“There are worse games to play.”

And although the circumstances are different, the words adapt to mean everything and anything.

The game of studying for finals that will, in the end, not throw my grades off some horrendous no-returning-from-here cliff. They will not make or break my chances of getting into a college that awaits me two years in the future. They will only bring chaos to here-and-now moments.

As soon as the school leaves for break, everyone will forget their almost-meltdowns about how, “There’s no way I’m not going to fail my chemistry final.”

Through the race of muttered curse words, ripped pages, destroyed text books, and the silent but studious players in a never-ending game, everyone needs to stop and breathe.

After five or six two-hour long tests, it will be over, and everyone will have a three week break to regain the sleep they lost in preparation for a final that they will forget the information to in a matter of hours.

In. And out.
In. And out.
In. And out.